Table of Contents
Half Past Mourning
Copyright
Rave Reviews for the Santa Rita Series
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Other Titles
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.
Half Past
Mourning
Santa Rita Series, Book Four
by
Fleeta Cunningham
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Half Past Mourning: Santa Rita Series, Book Four
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Fleeta Cunningham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Vintage Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 1-60154-995-4
Published in the United States of America
Rave Reviews for the Santa Rita Series
BLACK RAIN RISING
“A masterful job of bringing the reader back to small-town Texas in the fifties. She has the values and prejudices of the era down pat, and the characters...are memorable and realistic...Gripping and full of romance, drama, and a bit of suspense.”
~Maura, Coffee Time Romance (5 cups)
“One of the most fantastic books I’ve read this year...grabbed my attention from the first sentence... A memorable, entertaining, and well-written story... An author of increasing distinction who will never disappoint her readers.”
~Sal, Two Lips Reviews (5 Lips, Recommended)
DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’
“A warm, thought-provoking book...an enticing hero and a wounded yet proud heroine. A realistic picture of 1957...an image of small town America that both warms and terrifies... The best thing is she balances the buildup with a really good ending.”
~Vasiliki Scurfield, WRDF (rated Fantastic)
“A special treat! Subtly endearing and thoroughly thought-provoking, The plot deals with very real issues. Delightful humor, realistic characters... This is one for the keeper shelf.”
~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews (5 books)
ELOPEMENT FOR ONE
“I was so engrossed in the story I did not notice the hours pass...The twists and turns...make the story even more real and alive.”
~Dianna, Night Owl Reviews (5 Stars, a Top Pick)
“Well-crafted story... exciting plot... interesting characters... The love between the two main characters is precious, from the beginning to the final, exciting conclusion... I am now determined to read the rest of the series.”
~Jaye Leyel, The Romance Studio (5 Stars)
Dedication
To Noel with gratitude for technical expertise,
practical assistance, and great friendship.
Thanks for answering endless questions
and for teaching Nina to drive.
Prologue
June, 1956
“You’re not changing into some traveling outfit, Nina?” Eldon Lassiter turned his wheelchair in the narrow space beside the church parlor window.
Nina bent down to hug him, then tucked a fallen curl back under her bandeau of silk petals. “No, a girl doesn’t get to wear her wedding dress for long, and this suit isn’t too dressy for a short road trip.” She brushed a fleck of lint from her white pique skirt. The simple cotton sheath and jacket didn’t compare to the satin-and-lace gown she’d dreamed about, but it was in keeping with the informal country church and the small group of friends gathered to celebrate her marriage.
Her uncle locked the chair brake and took her hand. “You and Danny are going to be in Dallas all week? At the Adolphus?”
Nina put her hand over his. “A whole week in a fancy hotel. Isn’t that dreamy? Danny has to see the lawyers about transferring his inheritance, but other than that we’re just going to play and enjoy every minute.”
“Don’t know how much playing you’ll be able to do, what with his allergies and special diet and all that.” The lines in Uncle Eldon’s face deepened with his frown. “And you’re sure about coming back to live with your mother-in-law? Marigold wouldn’t be my first choice for a housemate. You certain you want to put your place up for sale? Might wait a bit, give yourself time to think about it.”
“Oh, you fret too much, Unc.” Nina squeezed his hand, a wave of affection filling her eyes with prickly tears. “Marigold is all right. She just worries, as any mother would who had come close to losing her only child. With Danny being so sick as a youngster and having so many complications, she’s bound to be protective. And there’s no point in keeping Orchid Cottage. Danny can’t live there. We’d spend a fortune to fix it so nothing would stir up his allergies. We’ll be better off living with Marigold. Her house has everything Danny needs, and she feels better with him close by. Somebody should be living in Orchid Cottage, but that somebody can’t be Mr. and Mrs. Danny Wilson.” She twisted the shining band, still a trifle loose on her finger, its half inch of heavy gold marking her newlywed status. Nina’s words were firm, but they didn’t quite quell the regret in her heart. Deciding to sell the house where she’d grown up had been so hard. The sale would close the last contact with her childhood and her late parents. “You’re sure you don’t mind taking Sinbad? I know you aren’t really a cat person, but I couldn’t bear letting him go to strangers.”
Her uncle tugged at his unaccustomed tie and stiff collar. “And you can’t take him to Marigold’s sanitized house, because Danny is allergic to cat hair.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind the old pirate. He’s good company, though I don’t know how he’ll take to living with me long term. You’ll come see him, so he doesn’t think he’s been abandoned?”
Giving up her cat—another wrench for Nina. Sinbad had been her companion through the worst time of her life: the sudden death of both parents in a multicar collision on an icy road her last year in high school. Without Danny, Sinbad, and Uncle Eldon, Nina didn’t know how she would have faced that terrible shock. Even after six years the pain hadn’t completely faded. Sending Sinbad to live with Uncle Eldon brought it back.
“I can’t bring cat hair back to Marigold’s house,” she reminded her uncle. “But I’ve been spending all my spare time at your museum most of my life. Danny and I won’t change that. He and I will be there so much I’ll still be able to see Sinbad.” Nina clutched her hopes for life ahead with Danny as tightly as she clutched her artificial nosegay. His quick smile, his curiosity, his fascination with anything mechanical, all of the things that made Danny unique, that made her love him. He needs me, too, more tha
n anything. He needs someone to help him build a real life, not the cocoon Marigold has wrapped around him.
“As long as you’re happy.” Uncle Eldon didn’t sound too certain she would be. “I guess we can take care of everything else. When you get back, we’ll go to the cottage and get the real estate listing squared away.”
Nina kissed his cheek. “Thanks for being the best uncle in the world.” Movement and a shadow across the window made her look up. “There’s Danny. He’s going to get the car. We’ll be leaving in just a few minutes.”
“Hid that T-Bird of his behind the parsonage, did he? ’Fraid somebody would put a fingerprint on that pretty yellow paint?”
“I think he was making sure nobody tied cans to it or put a Just Married sign on the trunk.” Nina watched her husband of an hour cross to the sidewalk. His white linen jacket caught the late afternoon sun as he passed the ivy-covered fence bordering the churchyard. He glanced toward the window and waved. Nina waved back.
He was taking the first steps toward their new life.
Chapter 1
April, 1958
Peter Shayne didn’t like Saturday morning classes any better than his freshman sociology students did. In fact, this morning, with Texas sun spilling light over the new green of spring, he probably liked it even less. He fingered the chalk for a moment, then printed, in his precise lettering, a question on the board.
“One-page essay, not one word more,” he instructed. “When you finish, turn in your paper and go.” He saw a ripple of pleased surprise flow over the sparse class. Peter hadn’t built his reputation as a tough professor by giving soft assignments or dismissing class early.
Forty minutes later, as eager as any of his students to be out of the confining walls of San Felipe College, Peter cast a cursory glance at the finished essays and shuffled them into his briefcase. Through the window he could see his new plaything, its brilliant yellow paint sparkling against the young green leaves that had begun to edge the parking lot.
A sports car might not be in keeping with his professorial image, but it satisfied a long-held desire. Peter felt the silly grin spreading, not just across his face, but welling up inside him from a boyish spirit he’d almost left behind.
Swinging the briefcase, he ducked out of the stuffy classroom and marched across the grounds with purpose in every step. Heaven forbid that anyone should stop him for a question or conference today. He had an engagement with a four-wheeled temptress and scant time to spare.
Parking in the open lot might not have been the smartest move, Peter reminded himself. The frat boys were always up to some mischief. A shiny yellow T-Bird might have suggested an initiation stunt. That little car drew attention, but Peter had chosen his spot well and had been able, for the most part, to keep an eye on his treasure while holding class. He’d be back to the old Merc after today, putting the pretty little toy safely in the garage till he had another occasion to show it off.
A movement beside the car caught his attention. One of the college kids must have spotted the T-Bird and come over for a closer look. Peter hurried toward the figure bending down beside the wheels. College boys and sports cars—they went together.
“Look but don’t touch,” he cautioned. “I don’t like fingerprints on the paint.”
The jeans-clad legs unfolded from a low crouch, narrow shoulders in a loose camp shirt turned, and Peter found himself facing a lean but obviously female form.
“It’s yours?”
A tumble of light brown curls framed a gamine face. Eyes the color of caramel looked at him with concentrated interest. Whippet-thin, the girl couldn’t be more than nineteen, but an air of subdued supplication underlined her words.
He nodded. “It is. And I need to leave now. If you’ll step back so I can get in, I’ll be on my way.”
She didn’t quite touch the gleaming fender but her hand strayed close. “I’ll bet you’re entering the gymkhana the sports car club is holding.” Her darker eyebrows went up in a question. “Aren’t you?”
Peter fished the keys out of his pocket. “Yes, as it happens, I am. And I need to get over there to register. It starts at noon. If you’ll excuse me, Miss...” Peter’s glance noted the wide gold band on the girl’s left hand. “Pardon. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs.…”
“Kirkland, Nina Kirkland,” she answered. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hold you up, but I wonder if you’d tell me when you bought the car and from whom?” A flush colored her thin cheeks, and the intensity in her eyes made them darker. “Did you buy it from… Was the person who sold it to you Danny Wilson?”
Keeping check on his rising exasperation, Peter shook his head. “No, I bought the car from a woman whose husband died suddenly. He’d had the car for a couple of years but didn’t get much fun out of it. He worked out of the country, Saudi Arabia, I think, and didn’t get home often.” Peter made moves to get into his car so the girl simply had to step aside. “His name wasn’t Wilson.”
The girl’s eyes clouded, and she glanced down. Peter had the feeling he’d hurt her in some way he didn’t understand. “I don’t know why you’re so interested, but if you like sports cars and know about the gymkhana, you might like to watch the competition this afternoon.”
“I…think I will.” She glanced again at his car. “There won’t be any other yellow T-Birds. Never were very many around here.”
The girl puzzled Peter, but only for a moment. She moved farther back. He could see her still watching as he pulled out of the parking lot but quickly forgot the encounter, his mind already on the afternoon event. This piece of American engineering felt strange under his hands. It didn’t handle as easily as he’d anticipated, but he wasn’t sure what he had expected when he followed the whim to buy it. The idea of owning a sports car excited him. Even more of a thrill was the idea of competitive driving. He’d never tried it and wondered if he could hold his own. That heel-and-toe thing, the way a driver could brake with his right foot while keeping the sole of his foot on the accelerator—he wanted to master that. It sounded as if it would keep the revs up, even in a lower gear. He’d read about it, even tried it, but without much success. Maybe somebody at the gymkhana could give him some pointers. The challenge of learning something new was half the excitement.
Cars and the people who enjoyed them filled the parking lot behind the college football stadium. Peter was struck by the number of entries in the event. He saw Alfas and MGs, a couple of Jaguars, one lone Corvette, and a number of sleek machines he didn’t even try to identify.
Not going to win anything today, Peter told himself with resigned honesty, but at least I’ll learn something about driving a sports car out here. He made his way to the registration booth, paid the entry fee—a fairly stiff one for a small town event—and pushed through the crowd to get back to his car. He’d have to fill out the entry forms and get them back pretty quickly. Qualifying rounds started in a very few minutes.
“You aren’t going to win.” The voice that echoed his own doubts came from behind him. A shadow fell across the pages in his hand.
Peter looked around. That college girl again, her tawny curls blowing, the breeze molding her shirt to curves more feminine than her lanky height suggested.
“I don’t suppose I will,” he agreed, keeping his tone amiable but dismissive. “But I want to find out what the car can do and how well I can handle it.”
Lights danced in her caramel eyes as she shook her head. “No, you can’t win, but your car can.”
Annoyed at her teasing, Peter took a step back. “Look, I don’t know what your interest is, and I don’t have a lot of time here. Do you have a point to make?”
“You can’t win. You’re not experienced, don’t know enough. But this little go-cart of yours could take first place if you had a decent driver at the wheel.”
He heard the authority in her tone. “And how would you know whether or not I can handle the competition?” His impatience mounted. He wanted to speed the girl out of sight be
fore he lost his concentration.
She shrugged. “I was behind you as you drove over here. I watched your driving. I can tell you that you don’t have a chance, but the car does. Put somebody behind the wheel who can do something with it.”
“It’s my car, so I guess I’m the one to drive it.” Peter glanced around at the milling crowd. “Even if you’re right and I can’t win, who would I get to drive? I don’t see anybody offering.”
Her nose wrinkled, and the smile on her face widened to show even white teeth. “Let me drive,” she challenged. “I can win that trophy for you. Only one driver in the competition is really good, the fellow with the Corvette, and his engine’s knocking today.”
Peter, speechless at the audacity of this impudent slip of a girl, spluttered. “Let you drive? You? You’re a...”
“Only a girl?” she interrupted.
“That, too, but I was going to say ‘stranger.’”
“I’m a stranger,” she agreed. “You’d be taking a chance. But what’s the important thing? Do you want to drive, or do you want to win?”
“I think I want to drive.”
“You think?” She shook her head. “You don’t need to drive. You need to learn how to drive. Take some time to learn the ropes; then you can try it for real.” She kept silent a second, but Peter could see the anxious urgency in her eyes. “Tell you what.” She drew a breath. “You let me drive the T-Bird and I’ll guarantee a win. If I don’t take the trophy, I’ll pay you back the entry fee. How’s that? You can’t lose. You get the trophy or you get your money back. You know you can’t win on your own. Let me drive, and the worst you can do is come out even. You should see how it’s done before you try it, anyway. You don’t want to break the car first thing, do you?”
Peter wasn’t sure what persuaded him. Somehow her determination, her audacity, perhaps a little concern about his own inadequacy, convinced him. He turned the entry form over and looked at the space for the driver’s information. “It’s that important to you?”
Something somber touched her face, shadowed the amber eyes, and darkened the tone of her voice. “You can’t imagine how important.”
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